Nate POV

Charity events are a special kind of hell.

Everything smells like overpriced cologne and fake sincerity. People talk in buzzwords and handshake like they’re closing a deal, not sipping wine next to a silent auction. Usually, I can fake it, smile for the cameras, nod through sponsor speeches, endure small talk with people who wouldn’t know a blue line from a grocery aisle. But tonight? Tonight, I’m one wrong move from blowing up everything.

Because Riley’s here. And so is the rest of my damn team.

The PR department practically threatened us with fines if we didn’t show. “Community engagement,” “positive optics,” “brand alignment”, whatever. I stopped listening after the second buzzword. What I didn’t stop doing was picturing Riley in some sparkly dress, drinking wine she pretends to hate, looking like sin in heels.

And having no goddamn idea who I really am.

I should’ve bailed. Told the team I was sick, broke a toe, anything. But I couldn’t stay away. Not when she invited me. I knew she didn’t think I’d show. But I wanted to for her.

I text her just as I’m walking through the service entrance, dodging camera flashes and trying to avoid the main doors where the team is posing like goddamn prom kings.

Riley: Forced to socialize with puckheads. Rip.

Me: Stuck in traffic. Be over soon.

Lying sucks less when it’s to protect something that matters.

I spot her across the room twenty minutes later. And holy shit. She’s… Yeah. That dress should be illegal. She’s a walking heart attack. Hair curled, lips stained with something dark, eyes sharp and scanning the room like she’s ready to bolt. My brain short-circuits. My chest tightens. I feel like I’ve been hit mid-ice shift without padding.

I stay hidden behind a tall centerpiece until the team’s done doing shots of fake charm for the photographers. One wrong angle, one selfie with a teammate in the background, and this whole thing unravels.

Liam tries to corner me near the bar. “Yo, Number Seventeen, where’s that girl you’ve been sneaking off with lately?”

I fake a cough. “What girl?”

“You know what, girl? The one who makes you actually smile.”

“Get lost.”

He laughs like it’s a joke. It’s not.

I finally timed it right, sneaked around the back, and approached her from behind. My hands find her waist before my brain catches up.

“Hey,” I murmur against her ear. “How’s my favorite anti-social doing?”

She jumps, then relaxes, and turns to face me with that wary smile I’ve grown addicted to.

“You showed,” she says, surprised. “I figured traffic won.”

“Nah,” I smirk. “I needed to see you in a dress.”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t pull away. That’s a win. “You’re such a guy.”

“Guilty.”

But I’m sweating in my blazer and not because of the heat. I scan the room, too many familiar faces. If one of them calls me out, if she hears the wrong name at the wrong time, the game’s up.

“I think I just spotted a player I know,” I lie. “Mind if I say a quick hey?”

She raises a brow. “You know athletes?”

“Small town. Big bar scene, Be right back, okay?” I throw out with a shrug, already backing away.

Coward.

I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know where I belong in this room. I want to be next to her, but I can’t afford the risk. PR snaps me up like they’ve been hunting me all night, pulls me into a photo with sponsors, hands me a fake drink, and parades me like a prize bull. All I can think about is her. Alone. Waiting.

I keep checking the crowd. Every ten seconds, my gaze jerks back to that corner. But she’s not there anymore.

And then I realize…she’s gone.

No text. No goodbye. Just…gone.

Guilt crashes down so fast I nearly choke on it. I try texting her, but the screen stays empty. She’s probably pissed. Rightfully.

I came here to see her. To prove I could be something real. And instead, I let the jersey get in the way. Again.

I stand there, a camera flash going off in my face, smiling like nothing’s wrong.

But everything is.

Because Riley thinks I ditched her. And the worst part? She’s not entirely wrong.